So it’s so long 2016 and hello 2017.
Lucky seven follows bizarre six.
May you live in interesting times.
Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
Three more years and it’s 2019.
Days later it's Jan. 1, 2020, marking my sixth decade as an
ink-stained wretch
First feature: an article, Summer 1979, for the Prescott
Journal about the value – medical and spiritual – of a daily run.
Countless stories, written and edited, in three full decades,
and seven-tenths of the fourth. Never looked back in anger. (Well, maybe once or twice.)
Lucky seven goes to Trump.
Obama had eight years but never a seven. A hopeful sign? We’re
pushed so far right that we have to reach for something. Better it not be an
arm of the swastika . (With a nod to honor the late great cartoonist Mickey
Siporin.)
Here’s to a happy and prosperous new
year.
We can do a lot worse than Confucius to keep us on our
psychic toes.
When asked how he would describe himself, he said, and I
paraphrase:
As a man who was so impassioned that he forgot to eat, so engaged that
he forgot to worry and so unaware of the time passing he didn’t notice his old
age.
Next: Running for
Your Life: Rituals!
